


Just Look

by MiaSpacey



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn, boyf riends — Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-23 11:46:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11401770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiaSpacey/pseuds/MiaSpacey
Summary: There’s a moment when you look at a person and you see them for the first time. When you really look. And it’s not like all the other times you’ve seen them. That’s just casual looking. You can talk to a person every day; you can know every slope and plane of their face; but you don’t really see them. You’re looking at them through a veil of familiarity. That’s why people in your memories never look the same as their real-life counterparts. Once you really focus on them, you tear down the veil. You see them exactly how they are. All rough edges and bags under the eyes; all stray hairs and kinked eyelashes. All blood vessels and skin; so, so much skin.Michael has always known there was exactly one person in the world he could count on. And then, all of a sudden, he needed him more than ever before.





	1. Prologue

There’s a moment when you look at a person and you see them for the first time. When you really look. And it’s not like all the other times you’ve seen them. That’s just casual looking. You can talk to a person every day; you can know every slope and plane of their face; but you don’t really see them. You’re looking at them through a veil of familiarity. That’s why people in your memories never look the same as their real-life counterparts. Once you really focus on them, you tear down the veil. You see them exactly how they are. All rough edges and bags under the eyes; all stray hairs and kinked eyelashes. All blood vessels and skin; so, so much skin.

That was one of Michael’s favorite pastimes. He’d sit quietly at lunch, nestling his face in his hoodie sleeve. He’d peek out from the top of his arm, stare at people, and try to tear down the veil. It was like he was ripping off his classmate’s faces. He would do that all through lunch. He didn’t eat his food; that is, if his mom remembered to give him any. He’d just sit there. Watching. Looking.

The other kids never tried to talk to him. He was that one kid that no one talks to. There’s always one kid that is ignored by their classmates. People like having a common enemy. A person to switch the conversation to when it isn’t going in their direction.

_“So, Jenna told me you kissed Madeleine on the playground.”_

_“Yeah, but did you see Michael? He was staring at me at lunch today.”_

_“He does that. Hey, did I tell you I caught him trying to eat dirt?”_

The teachers tried to reach out to him. They knew about his parents. Of course, they knew. They’d seen enough children with distant looks to know where the distance came from. But they couldn’t help. They were powerless, and they knew it. But what little they could do, they did. Michael knew that on the days when his mom locked herself in the bathroom and wouldn’t come out until his bus came, he’d have a sandwich waiting for him in the teachers’ lounge. The teachers would pitch in to get him school supplies when his grades were dropping. They’d make sure he had at least one proper meal. But other than that, they had to watch as Michael trudged home from school because he missed his bus and his mom forgot what time he got out of school. They watched the boy with distant eyes who knew too much for his age. They watched with pain in their eyes. But still, they watched.

And Michael watched, too. He watched his classmates at lunch. He stripped them of their familiarity and forced himself to see past what he always saw. He let himself see every fiber of their being. He sat alone, he watched, and his classmates passed him by.

But then, in third grade, someone was there. Someone was sitting next to Michael. 

“Hi. I’m Jeremy,” said the someone. 

“I’m Michael,” Michael mumbled. He didn’t look at the newcomer. He was busy looking at everyone else.

“I know who you are.” Jeremy poked Michael’s elbow. “Everyone says you’re crazy. So? Are you?”

“What?”

“Are you crazy?” Jeremy repeated.

Michael shifted his head so he was further nestled in his arm. “I’m not crazy. I just like looking.”

“Can I help?”

“What?” This boy was full of strange questions. Michael wasn’t sure if he liked it. At home, no one asked questions. At school, no one asked questions. Everyone just whirled past him. It was confusing to him why, suddenly, this boy dropped out of his own orbit to visit Michael’s.

“Can I help you look? What are you looking for?”

That was two questions in one. “I guess,” Michael muttered. He wasn’t sure how to answer the second question. “I’m looking for people.”

“There’s people all around, silly.”

“That’s . . . that’s not what I meant. I’m looking . . . through people.”

“You mean, you can see ghosts?” Jeremy said excitedly. 

Michael almost smiled. It had been so long since he had smiled. Doing it now kind of made him want to throw up and laugh and throw up from laughing.


	2. First Day

Michael tugged at the strings of his hoodie. He hated that he did that; it stretched out the strings. His hoodie was custom-made. Jeremy had it made for him for his fourteenth birthday. The birthday no one else remembered. If he stretched out the strings now, Michael would feel like he let Jeremy down.

But he couldn’t let Jeremy down. When Jeremy caught him with a joint after he’d promised him he’d stop, he just shrugged and pretended it didn’t happen. Michael was grateful for that. Jeremy understood everything.  
_Everyone needs at least one friend like that,_ Michael thought. _One friend that keeps you from hating_ everything _in the world._

It was the first day of sophomore year. Michael had heard that the other kids were relieved that freshman year was over. Michael was indifferent. All the years felt the same to him. But he liked First Days. They were like signposts in your memories to help you differentiate what people meant when they said “last year.” First Days were nice, but not nearly as nice as they could be. They never quite cleared away everything from the last year. Kids hung on to as much of their past selves as they could, while simultaneously trying to change everything about themselves.  
Nothing could change Michael’s life. Not even shiny new school years and a fresh set of faces to memorize.

\---

Jeremy was waving at him. “Michael!” He smiled like someone had just given him a third arm. Michael knew that smile. That was Jeremy’s I Don’t Know Anyone Here Please Save Me smile.

Michael sat down next to him. It was Biology, third period. The first period all day he had with Jeremy. 

“Welcome, children,” said the Biology teacher. “I’m fairly chill,” he said, spreading his arms out, “with wherever you want to sit. Anything for a scholar, I like to say.” He tilted his head to the class. “I hope you will join me on this journey for knowledge.”

The Biology teacher was a small man. His pants were rolled up at the ankles to keep the cuffs from dragging on the floor. His hair was short. It was like a dusting of brunette down on his head. He had ears like a monkey, and Michael wondered if that helped him hear students whispering. _Mr. Moretti,_ it said on the board. 

Michael instantly disliked him. He wasn’t even interested in focusing on his face. He thought he might get turned to stone if he looked at Mr. Moretti for more than a few seconds. 

Jeremy nudged his arm. “Dude. I bet he keeps blond women in his basement.”

Michael nodded. “Look at him. Just _oozing_ smarm.” He paused. “I bet he only takes tall women.”

“Yeah,” Jeremy agreed. “He probably sits in their laps and tries to teach them Cell Theory.”

“Children,” Michael mimicked.

Jeremy laughed. “Hey. At least he’s letting us sit together. I’ve been forced to sit with other people for the last two periods.” 

Michael knew what he meant by “other people.” Jeremy was Michael’s only friend, and Michael, in turn, was Jeremy’s only friend. Life was a game they took on together. 

Mr. Moretti clicked a button on his mouse. The projector lit up. It displayed a stock photo of a binder.

“Now, children,” he said. “I’m a simple man. I don’t require much for this class. I only ask that you purchase a 3-ring binder, and eight divider tabs. It _behooves_ you to purchase a binder. Now, who can tell me what ‘behooves’ means?”

Christine – oh, Christine – raised her hand. “It means it helps you,” she sparkled. That was how Christine talked: like every word was full of glitter and effervescence. 

Mr. Moretti beamed. “Yes! I would like you all to write that down. Behoove – helps you.”

Michael didn’t write it down. He was thinking about how he would get a binder. If he asked his mom, she’d just forget. If he asked his dad, he’d just say no. Hopefully, Mr. Moretti’s binder wasn’t as vocab-word worthy as he was implying. 

Jeremy was writing down the word. Michael knew it was because he was too afraid of getting called out if he didn’t. Jeremy hated drawing attention to himself. Michael, however, didn’t care. He’d stopped caring when he started staring at people. _Stop caring, start staring._ That rhymed. 

\---

Biology ended, and Jeremy left. Michael put on his headphones. He scrolled through his Soundcloud library. _Bob Marley._ Perfect. Michael liked the relaxing feel of Marley songs. It made him feel like he was floating in the Lazy River at the water park he and Jeremy went to once. 

He didn’t take his headphones off when he got to fourth period. He didn’t need to. No one ever used math, anyway.


	3. Lunch

Michael moved his fork around in his chicken and rice. It was covered in some teriyaki/gravy/disgustingness sauce. Every school lunch seemed to be covered in that sauce. No matter what it was. _Sauce-covered chicken and rice. Sauce-covered beans in a little plastic cup. Sauce-covered salad._ The real public school experience. 

He didn’t really want to eat it. He hated that he had to eat free school lunch. He should at least have to pay for the privilege of eating the shitty cafeteria food like everyone else. The best he could do was run over to 7-Eleven and grab a slushie. It added a bit of color to his drab lunch situation. 

He took a sip of his slushie now, welcoming the brain freeze that came with it. Jeremy never understood why he did that. _“It feels like it’s crushing my skull,” he said, scowling into his cup. “I know,” Michael said, taking another sip. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Isn’t it wonderful?”_

He saw Jeremy enter the cafeteria. He was clinging to his backpack straps. Like, actually clinging. Like his backpack was the weight holding him down to Earth, and if he let go, he’d float up to the ceiling and someone would have to come get him. _Jeremy would just hate that,_ Michael thought with a smile.

Jeremy’s eyes moved around the cafeteria until he saw Michael. Michael was in the first place he looked. They always sat in the same spot. The very back of the cafeteria, where the lights flickered and the trash cans were kept. Where no one else wanted to sit. It worked out well. They could sit there, and no one would bother them. They always had a set space to sit, unlike many of their peers. That was the benefit of being a loser with only one friend – you never had to worry about social cliques.

In theory, at least. Michael knew Jeremy worried about his social status. It was pitiful, really; Jeremy was too far immersed in nerd culture to drag himself out now. In truth, Michael worried about it a little bit too. If Jeremy somehow _did_ manage to become popular, it would be the end of Michael’s social life. He depended on Jeremy more than he cared to admit.

Jeremy sat down next to him. “Michael!” That was how Jeremy greeted people. Just their names.

“Hey, Jer,” Michael said, pushing away his tray. “How was the first half of your first day? Any other characters like Mr. Moretti worth mentioning?”

Jeremy slung his bag onto the floor. “The English teacher from hell,” he admitted. “Dude, she gave us so much work, I could barely keep up with what she was saying. And it’s only the first day! Apparently, we’re going to be reading _Romeo and Juliet._ I hate Shakespeare.”

Michael looked at him with mock horror. “C’mon. Nobody hates Shakespeare.”

“They would if they knew how cryptic he was.”

“. . . Fair point.”

“If she makes us read _Hamlet,_ I think I’ll have to knock myself out with it.”

“Shh. Don’t say that.” Michael looked around. “She’ll burst out of the floor and take that as a suggestion.”

Jeremy giggled. “To read or not to read.”

“That’s probably how she makes her lesson plans. Just sits at her desk with a falcon on her shoulder, making a checklist of all the horrendously long plays and/or poems to make you read.”

Jeremy groaned. “Oh, God, I hope not. There’s gotta be a ton of those. That’s all people seemed to do back before video games were invented – write boring stuff.”

“Hey, speaking of which, are we still on today to play _Apocalypse of the Damned_ at your place?” Michael asked. “Or do you have too many cryptic plays to read?”

“Nah, man. You’re always welcome at my place,” Jeremy said. And Michael knew he meant it. In Michael’s experience, when people said he was ‘always welcome,’ it meant he was welcome only when they said he was. They said it only to flex their aren’t-I-good muscles and feel like they were helping. But Michael knew Jeremy wasn’t lying to him. 

Jeremy never lied to him.


	4. Birch Logs on a Log

“How do you feel about. . . birch logs on a log?”

“Say that again so it makes sense.”

Jeremy lifted his head up so Michael could see his face over the fridge door. “Birch logs on a log? All we have is cheese sticks and celery.” He peered into the fridge again. “And some yogurt.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

Jeremy closed the door to the fridge and walked into the garage. Michael knew that was the Heeres’ pantry. He emerged shortly holding a jar of pickles. Jeremy put them on the counter. “I have an idea. Birch logs on a log, dipped in strawberry yogurt. With a side of pickles.” He did jazz hands. “What do you think?”

Michael stared at the pickle jar. He pointed to the label. “I think these expired in 2008.”

Jeremy blinked. “I think we can still eat them.”

“I think the fuck not,” Michael giggled. “I don’t want to die because of 11-year-old pickle poisoning. That would _really_ suck.”

Jeremy frowned at the offending pickles. “You’re right.” He sighed. “Sorry, Michael. I thought my mom was going to go grocery shopping.” He looked forlornly at the grocery list on the side of the fridge. It was stuck there with a bright purple magnet. 

Michael shrugged. “It’s cool. Cheese sticks and celery is cool.” He knew Jeremy’s mom was kind of like his: distant and neglectful. The difference was, Michael’s mom was spaced-out. Jeremy’s just didn’t care. She didn’t know how to be a parent and wasn’t interested in trying. All the responsibility for parenting had fallen on Jeremy’s dad. Michael was kind of jealous of that. He’d love to have at least one parent that gave a shit about him.

He shook the thoughts out of his head. Jeremy’s house was a no-thinking-about-parents zone. 

Jeremy grinned at him. “Great. Cheese sticks and celery it is.” He put them on a plate. It was a very pretty shade of blue. 

Michael stared at the plate. If he stared hard enough, he could imagine that the plate was the sky and the birch logs on a log were falling, falling, falling. . . falling until all that was left was a memory of their presence in the wind.

And then they were gone. Jeremy was carrying the plate into the basement. Michael followed him. 

Jeremy set down the plate in between the two beanbags. He grabbed a birch log on a log before plopping down into the blue beanbag. He bit into it and made a face. “It’s not _that_ bad. I kinda thought it’d be worse.”

Michael tried one too. Jeremy was right. It wasn’t that bad. It tasted like cheese and celery. _Celery doesn’t even really have a taste. It’s just crunchy water with added strings of horror,_ he thought. And Michael had a thing for chewy things eaten with crunchy things. “I like it.”

Jeremy waved his arm over the plate. “They’re all yours if you want them, dude.”

Michael took another one and sat in the red beanbag. Jeremy was already loading up the game. They got into their gaming positions. Jeremy preferred to sprawl out on the beanbag and stay still; Michael liked to cross his legs, hunch over, and move with his avatar. 

_“Jer, how can you stay still like that?” Michael said in frustration. He had tried to copy Jeremy’s position and had failed the level miserably._

_Jeremy just shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just relaxing, I guess.”_

_Michael crossed his legs again. “I will never understand you and your strange ways.”_

Jeremy hit the start button and Michael was thrust into the world of _Apocalypse of the Damned._ Soon, all that could be heard was the clicking of buttons. This wouldn’t last long. Video game time was talking time. Whenever they got to the first checkpoint, the conversation would flow.

“So, did you see the way Mr. Moretti was talking to Christine today?” Jeremy asked.

Michael nodded, even though he knew Jeremy was looking at the screen. “And Jake! He only used his full name! _Jake Simon Dillinger._ How does he even know his middle name?”

“He’s a creeper, I tell you. I’m glad he doesn’t know my middle name,” Jeremy shuddered. “I wouldn’t want him to ruin my name.”

The conversation continued like that. Michael fell asleep at Jeremy’s house. His parents wouldn’t care, anyway.


	5. Late

Michael woke up to Jeremy shaking him awake. 

"Michael. Michael!"

He opened his eyes. _Jeremy,_ his mind said. He didn't say it out loud. Something about talking when he just wakes up, something about how his eyes can't quite focus yet, something about how his mouth feels frozen from hours of idleness, made him stay silent. 

Jeremy stopped shaking him. "We missed our bus."

Michael decided to commit to the new day and got up. He took a preliminary run of his hand through his hair and stretched. "Nnnngh."

If it was Michael who had woken Jeremy up, instead of the other way around, they would have woken up faster. Michael wouldn't have let Jeremy wake up slowly. But Jeremy did, and Michael sluggishly ambled into the bathroom. He brushed his teeth using the toothbrush he kept at Jeremy's house. Jeremy filed in after him. 

"Sorry I didn't wake you up sooner," Jeremy said. "My phone was buried under my bean bag and I didn't hear it go off.”

"Ehs okah," Michael said through a foam of toothpaste. "Ah sure no one iss us anywah." _I’m sure no one missed us anyway._

Jeremy looked hurt. Michael instantly felt bad. “You really think so?”

Michael had no good comeback. He’d messed up. A plethora of possible answers ran through his head. None seemed like the right choice. He spit out his mouthful of toothpaste, more to stall than anything. “Well, I’m sure our homeroom teachers missed us when they took roll.” It was a weak attempt to fix the situation. But it seemed to work, as Jeremy started smiling again.

“If we take our time when we walk, we might miss Mr. Moretti’s class!”

\---

They got to school in time to miss first and second period, but to their dismay, they got there just in time to waltz into Mr. Moretti’s class like they didn’t just miss their first two periods. Michael was consciously aware of the snickers of their classmates as he and Jeremy walked over to give Mr. Moretti their late passes. He heard the words “gay” and “sneaking off” whispered behind hands. He held his head higher as he returned to his seat and pretended not to notice.

“I’m glad you could join us, Mr. Mell and Mr. Heere,” Mr. Moretti said. “It is crucial that you don’t miss a _second_ of class. The EOC will be here before you know it.”

_What’s he on about,_ Michael thought. _It’s the second day of school._

“Now, children. We will be learning many mnemonic devices over the course of our time together. In fact, I will tell you one right now.” He picked up a marker and uncapped it with more flourish than was necessary. _MRS GREN,_ he wrote on the board. He pressed hard on the marker and wrote fast. It was almost like he was attacking the board.

“These letters all stand for something,” he said. _Yes, Mr. Moretti, that’s what a mnemonic is._ “Movement, Respiration, Sensitivity, Growth, Reproduction, Excretion, Nutrition. The seven characteristics of living things. Now, I want you to write that down. This will be the first page of your new binder section, labeled ‘Acronyms.’ Do it now.” He repeated the directions three more times.

Michael’s hatred grew for Mr. Moretti by the second. He talked to them like they were five years old. Michael had had his fair share of teachers talking to him like he was five. They assumed that because Michael’s parents never taught him anything, he was developmentally stunted. Their “help” was unneeded and unwelcome. He held onto the hope that Mr. Moretti would get fired soon and he wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. 

When the class ended, Michael was relieved, even though it meant he wouldn’t get to see Jeremy until lunch. Oh, well. He’d have plenty of time with Jeremy after school. And hey, if he couldn’t survive on his own for a few hours, he was never going to get through the school year.

He told himself these things even though he knew they weren’t true.


End file.
